Across the street, Mira fud as she walked briskly past a display rack of bolts of clothes and a few golden-threaded, ready-made gowns. She barely registered the shopkeeper’s greetings, her eyes sharp and unfocused.
Alia trailed behind her, more uncertain than ever. The warmth she’d felt from Lara’s invitation had evaporated, replaced by confusion and sothing more painful: rejection.
"I don’t understand what happened," Alia murmured as they entered a corner of the shop filled with evening cloaks and embroidered bodices.
Mira whirled on her. "She’s not the sa, Alia. You saw it. She looked at you like you were nothing. As if none of it mattered."
"But I thought she was trying...she asked for a sleepover," Alia’s voice faltered. "Maybe she really doesn’t rember."
"She rembered enough to push people away," Mira said flatly. "She’s playing the victim. That’s all she knows how to do." Mira was trying to paint a picture of Lara in a bad light.
One of Mira’s lackeys, Diana, shifted uncomfortably behind them. "Maybe she’s just... coping? Co to think of it, if you forgot everything, wouldn’t you be uncomfortable if suddenly a stranger told you she is your best friend?"
Mira’s glare silenced her.
Alia looked down at her hands, her voice barely a whisper. "She was my best friend."
"Then you should act one." With sincerity, Diana glanced at Alia and said, "What she needed now is a friend."
Mira stepped closer, her tone softening with false sympathy. "Diana is right, Alia. Don’t let her slip away. Stay close to her. She invited you. That ans sothing, doesn’t it?"
Alia looked up, hope flickering again. "Maybe..."
"Yes." Mira leaned in. "Stay close. You’ll get her to open up. And if she doesn’t? Then you’ll know exactly if she is pretending or not."
Diana frowned. She could feel that Mira had earlier tried to create discord between Lara and Mira. But why was she suddenly encouraging Alia? Wasn’t she contradicting?
...
Alia did not sleep over that night. Her parents would not let her. But she arrived the night before the banquet marking Prince Reuben’s formal declaration as the heir to the throne.
She arrived late in the afternoon, her pink backpack slung over her shoulder and a soft pink robe folded neatly inside. Yes, Lara has gifted her with the cute pink backpack.
Lara greeted her at the door. She wore a conservative maxi dress, her lengthy hair tied back in a loose braid, and her face was unreadable.
"Co in," she said, stepping aside.
Inside, the warmth of the house enveloped them—flickering candles gave off the faint scent of rosewood, polished floors reflected the afternoon sunbeam, and a tray of pastries and tea waited in the sitting room.
They sat together awkwardly at first. The conversation ca in fragnts—snippets of shared childhood, fragnts of mory Alia offered like delicate glass.
"You used to hate chamomile," Alia said with a small smile. "You said it tasted like boiled grass."
Lara blinked, lifted the cup, and downed the remaining contents in one gulp. "I still think it does."
They laughed, and for a mont, the years between them blurred. But it didn’t last.
Alia hesitated, then leaned forward. "Do you... Do you rember anything about the ti you were taken?"
Lara’s eyes darkened. Her smile vanished like morning mist.
"No," she said. "And I don’t want to talk about it."
"I’m sorry," Alia said quickly. "I didn’t an to—"
"It’s alright," Lara cut in. Her voice was quiet but firm. "People keep trying to fill in my past for . As if I’m broken and need help rembering. But sotis... maybe forgetting is survival."
After that, they sat in silence, the only sound being the distant ticking of a grandfather clock, until a servant announced that Lara had a visitor.
"A visitor?"
Before Lara could ask anything, another servant ushered Prince Alaric. With him was Agilus and Aramis. Redon and the other guards must be nearby, hidden in the shadows.
Alia’s eyes widened when she saw who the visitor was.
Alaric was tall, with a commanding posture and sharp, intelligent eyes the color of the deepest night. He wore a deep midnight-blue doublet with silver threading, and though his expression was composed, his gaze swept the room with careful calculation.
"Your Highness," Lara greeted as she curtsied.
Alaric’s face softened. "I told you just call Alaric."
Alia, who was sitting awkwardly, didn’t know whether to stand and greet the prince or stay seated. In the end, because of her upbringing, she still stood up and greeted Prince Alaric with a graceful curtsy.
Prince Alaric inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgnt. His keen eyes lingered on the young girl who was fidgeting nervously before him, her fingers twisting in the hem of her dress, as if seeking solace in its fabric. After a mont, he redirected his gaze to Lara.
"Shall we walk?" he asked, extending an arm.
Lara paused for a mont, her gaze drifting towards Alia, who sat with a hint of uncertainty etched on her face. The soft light from the window frad Alia’s features, accentuating the tension in her brow. Though she seed hesitant, her voice trembled slightly as she finally agreed to remain in the sitting room, not that she could do otherwise.
Lara gently laid her hand on Alaric’s forearm, the warmth of her touch igniting a spark between them. As they walked side by side down the lengthy corridor, the soft glow of flickering candles cast radiant pattern on the polished marble floor.
With every step, the scent of blooming flowers wafted through the air, drawing them closer to the gardens. Behind them, Agilus and Aramis followed at a respectful distance, their footsteps muted against the elegant stone, adding a sense of solemnity to the tranquil scene.
The silver moon rose high over the sprawling estate Lara now called ho. The gardens were hushed, moonflowers blooming beneath the pale light, and the fountains murmuring like whispers in the dark.
Prince Alaric or Lara did not talk much. They just relaxed in each other’s company.
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